Ivalice Alliance: If I Were Your Judge
by Fly and Crow
Summary: FFXII!fic: One was a Sky Pirate who got careless. The other was a Judge at least fifteen years too young for his rank. Between them both were mistakes, too many irrational choices that should never have been made, if only they had not met one fateful day.
1. Chapter 1

_Agile, swift, and keen of tooth, the wolf is the preeminent hunter. Though once they lived in close harmony with mankind, fierce competition over prey brought Man to shun and eventually revile them. Yet, every once in a while there is still a case, where a man will be compelled to capture a wolf, for whatever reason the wolf may raise his interest._

_Every once in a while, a man will still find benefit in keeping that wolf alive._

* * *

To be caught up to so quickly over the harsh terrain, he expected no less from a Judge Magister… Of course, it _had_ been a Judge Magister he was expecting when he jumped from the ship as he did. Thus the one who met him – cutting off his retreat – did well to catch him by surprise, a surprise he masked quickly into a condescending sneer.

"The Empire's dog has a dog of his own," he taunted aloud. "Who would have thought…"

The one before him was silent. Though obviously not the Judge Magister, he wore armor that was a visual symbol of his Judge status nonetheless. He seemed a little leaner, a little smaller, but obviously possessed a frightening amount of agility to maneuver freely within the steel suit as well as he did. Comparing this Judge to his superior, his armor was distinctly more animal-like in its design: His was a color scheme of ebony black and dark silver, and a blood red scoop was molded from each cowter, tips flattened and sharpened to form dangerous-looking scythes. His helm was in the form of a lion's head with four red horns curved backward, and through the black depths that were the "lion's" eyes, no doubt were the Judge's own staring through at him.

He already had his weapon out. It was not the pair of Chaos Blade and Highway Star that the Judge Magister he expected was famous for, but a single greatsword that was nonetheless impressive. It was unique in its design – the marriage of a single-edged blade with the chambers and trigger of a gun, the angled hilt a compromise of both. Following the theme of the armor, the shape of a horned lion was burned in fiery red over the silver surface. He was still admiring the unusual weapon when he suddenly found it held up before him, its tip pointed at his throat.

"Draw your sword," a deep, hollow voice resonated from the helm's depths, interestingly sounding like a lion's roar, "or be felled by mine."

Huffing in amusement, he reached behind him and pulled his own weapon free from its leather scabbard. With a soft rush of air, the Buster Sword was held up as well. Deliberately, he chose to hold it with both hands.

"If you wanted to play," he answered in a drawl, "all you had to do was ask."

No more words were wasted between them. It was the Judge who moved first, sharp edge hacking into sharp edge with aggressive force. He allowed his armored opponent a step, then lunged forward, using his momentum to swing both blades and opponent high into the air. He saw it coming – the counterattack – and he promptly raised the Buster Sword again, this time one-handed, as he swung to meet it at once. The cover of a helm did little to hide the Judge's surprise at the sudden display of strength, but the charge continued unhindered.

Blades met again. Then, his confident smirk was lost as a sharp "_crack_" reached his ears half a second before a powerful shock hit his blade and shot down his arm. The pain he was not prepared for nearly caused him to drop his weapon, but he stubbornly held on, instead backing off to gain some ground between himself and his opponent. Regardless, his blade chopped into the ground as he staggered, a hand on his knee to support him as he caught his breath.

"… So…" he commented lightly, "it seems we both have some trump cards in our decks."

There was no verbal rebuttal, and he could sense the other watching him closely, wary for any other "surprises" that might come his way. He would have played that to his favor if he could, but he knew how little time he truly had at hand before the pursuing troops caught up to them. That earlier move would have been the one to facilitate his getaway, if only the other had not caught him off guard as well.

Grunting, he pushed himself upright and readied the sword once more. The humor was gone from the situation as he prepared to fight for his life, ready to do anything that might best aid in his escape.

"No need for others to interfere, is there?" he called. "We settle this, here and now."

There was a shift of heavy boots against the dusty ground beneath them. The strange gun-sword was raised once more. Still, the Judge said nothing, his agreement to the situation only to dash forward with a burst of speed. Heavy armor that should have been cumbersome did little to hold the blur of force back as the sword was held high, aimed this time for his heart.

No longer seeing the need for pretenses, his hand gripped the hilt and pulled the large sword… backwards. It was a risky endeavor, but if he knew the other, he knew that any further uncommon movements would cause instant paranoia. And if concerned enough for what new trick might be played, his opponent would be too focused on what he was assuming should happen… instead of what _could_ happen.

With his attention on the sharp edge of the huge blade, the Judge did not notice the hilt was moving, from one hand to the next. His only warning was the sudden surge toward him, and still he did not get away fast enough as the pommel connected sharply with the sculpted lion's jaw. There was a startled cry, and the Judge was thrown backward with a shattering clatter of metal plating. A slightly softer clunk of the helm followed in the echo, the lion head rolling to a stop a short distance away.

He had his opening. He went straight for it. Raising his blade high, he slammed it downward with little hesitation. There was too much distance between them – saving the Judge's life – but the tip of the Buster Sword was still close enough to catch him above the eyebrow just as he barely looked up, slicing a line down his face that sprayed hot blood.

The ground beneath them was splattered in red. Both were panting, one with his blade still held tightly and the other partially kneeling on the ground, his head turned from an instinctive attempt to ride with the blow. More blood was dripping, flowing steadily and spattering to the ground with rhythmic noise. With a harsh growl, the Judge turned around and looked up once more.

The unmasked face belonged not to an adult, but to an adolescent. There were some harder, masculine lines that were just setting, but not enough to take away from the youthfulness in that visage. He was clean-shaven, further enhancing his boyish appearance, and soft chocolate bangs stuck to fair skin that was now smeared in blood. Silvery blue eyes were bright with intelligence, though now they were harsh and brittle as they glared up at him.

Looking into those eyes, seeing the blood from the injury he was responsible for, he faltered. "You… You're a…?!"

He had gone too far. He had struck out at a child.

Those intense eyes suddenly widened, the boy just realizing his new predicament. The boy's gaze landed on the helm to his side, then returned to the one responsible for its loss. Bearing his teeth in a silent, furious snarl, the boy tightened his grip on the weapon he had yet to let go of. He only just noticed the blur of motion before a blunt but still narrow force– he guessed the dull side of the blade – smashed into his unguarded side with a sickening "crack". He felt himself fall, his senses losing their edge, and he watched as the boy abruptly turned away and lifted a hand to his face, blocking it from view.

The rest faded into blissful darkness…

* * *

He woke to the low drones of engines, vibrations under him telling of an airship just lifting for takeoff. Instinctively testing his limbs, resistance on his arms and the rattle of chains prompted him to look down. Encircling his wrists were familiar shackles, their metal laced with magicite to suppress magic, and secured to them was a length of thick chain bolted to a high point in the wall. He drew his forearms back, attempting to gauge the chain's full slack and, if possible, its strength.

"Don't bother," a familiar hollow voice spoke to him. "It goes halfway to the door and no further, and it has held stronger men than you."

He looked up too quickly, the action causing him to reel before he could fully regain his bearings. Seconds went by before his blurred vision sharpened once more, and he found himself staring through the bars of a cell door. Standing on the other side was that same suit of armor in black and silver colors, and he was again looking into the dark depths of a lion's empty eyes.

"So they train their dogs by taking them as whelps, now…?" he snapped. It was unintentional, but that angry guilt over his earlier actions had to go somewhere. "Or perhaps you're just easier to catch before you learn to run."

The Judge did not rise to the provocation. Instead, he placed a hand on one of the bars, steadying himself as the vibrations grew more violent until they reached their peak. Once they calmed once more, the hand lowered, the armored figure turning away.

"Tired of my company already?" he called after him, causing him to pause.

"If you are awake," the Judge replied, "I am to inform the Judge Magister."

"And why the rush?" he challenged instead. "Why have you kept me alive, anyway?"

"You are a source of information," the Judge answered. "And even if your words are not useful, you are still valuable as a hostage."

He bristled, straightening in his seated position. "You can't be sure of that."

There was a barely audible huff. "Perhaps we cannot. Yet, there is little harm in taking that chance."

Something dawned on him, and he got up. The chain's rattling was enough to hold the Judge's attention just a little longer.

"… Your wound," he spoke this time, words difficult for him to say. "… How bad was it?"

"Nothing maiming," the Judge answered stiffly, uncomfortable with this line of dialogue. "I advise you, for your own sake, to forget it ever happened."

"I can't do that."

"Then consider this," and the Judge had turned back, a glare felt through those unchanging feral "eyes", "if I were an adult, you would not have faltered."

"… but you aren't," he spoke aloud, meeting the anger with sincerity.

_You're a kid. You're not supposed to be here._

There was the softest of growls, and the Judge turned away. "If this is pity, you can save it for yourself."

"What's your name?"

Another huff, but still the Judge relented enough to give an answer: "I am Judge Griever. You will want to remember that."

"A false name, huh?" He had expected as much. "You'll have to give me a real one, if you want mine."

Judge Griever seemed surprised, and this time he turned around. "Are you not called Fenrir?"

"Just a title, much like yours," he replied easily. "Though not as flashy, I'll give you that."

The Judge was watching him with renewed interest – bare as it was – before asking pointedly, "What exactly do you want?"

He shrugged with his reply. "Many things: riches, peace, safety, adventure, a lovely spouse to wake up next to… but from you…"

His bound hands came up together, one curled partially while the other pointed a finger at the young Judge. He spoke seriously now, leaving no misunderstanding of his intentions:

"I want a rematch."

Judge Griever seemed surprised, and then actually considering it for a moment. Then, with a scoff, he dismissed it and turned away for a final time, walking back the way he came through the corridor.

But he saw it nevertheless. He knew the other's answer without it having to be said: In spite of his mature front, he was still a teenager with impulsive desires that he was probably doing all he could to keep in check. If this was a chance for the boy to prove himself worthy despite his age, he would take it.

He would take it very, very soon…


	2. Chapter 2

Judge Griever took the moment of privacy he needed after he was finished speaking with the prisoner. Before, with what little time he had, there was none for the luxury of cleaning the injury he had received; perhaps a minor curative spell to stop the bleeding as an afterthought, but no more. Now, alone in the small facility connected to his quarters, he bent over a sink and splashed liberal amounts of water on his face, scrubbing the dried flecks of blood from his skin until it was warm and raw.

His bangs dark and dripping with faintly pink moisture, he pressed both hands on the edges of the sink, then finally raised his head and stared into the mirror. Taking in the newest addition to that boyish face he was so used to seeing, he curiously lifted his right hand from its perch and placed a finger carefully on the sharp point just above the tip of his right eyebrow. The skin there was still tender, a little raised and swollen due to trauma.

With that first touch and some understanding of what to expect, he started down the diagonal line slicing across his face at an angle over the bridge of his nose. As he reached the other end – another sharp point just under his left cheekbone – he drew his hand back. No blood; so the healing magic had done its job, at the very least.

He looked again at the scar, remembered how deep the groove had seemed to feel under the pad of his finger. Tilted a little further to either side, and he would be blinded in one eye. Sliced a little deeper, and he might have died. He had been careless. He had let his guard down. This scar would always remind him of that, and he welcomed the reminder. He could not afford a second time.

His other hand left its perch as well and reached for a towel. Drying himself off, he stepped back out into the more open space of his quarters. Sitting on his desk was his helm, left exactly where he had set it down, and beside it a covered tray he had ordered the galley officer to bring up to him.

He pulled the cover off carelessly, but the sight of still warm food slowed his movements, and he allowed himself to pick at what was on his plate a little longer before rolling up bite-sized portions to pop into his mouth. A few minutes passed like this, dedicated simply to eating and replenishing the blood he had lost earlier, until he finally wiped his fingers clean and covered the tray once more, not looking at it again. That at least settled the issue with the awkward, unnecessary risk of passing out on the deck.

Now, of course, there was that issue with the prisoner. According to the reports, "Fenrir" was a particularly evasive Sky Pirate who supposedly worked for the insurgence, though there was nothing solid to prove the connection. At least, not yet. Upon his capture, the blond had been stripped of his filthy clothes, cleaned up thoroughly, and dressed in a pair of loose fitting breeches. Barefoot and half-naked with his wrists chained to a wall, he had looked a little less like a dangerous criminal and a little more like another Hume captive.

Yet, that was before Fenrir challenged him. Up until that point, he had never actually considered crossing blades with this one again. Now, with the chance presented to him, he realized that suppressed desire of his to feel that rush of strength meeting his once more. Few others in the past had given him a decent fight, especially one that required him to give it his all. The offer was too tempting. How easy it would be to open the cell and grant the other the means for a fair fight…

He had to leave, then, to put distance between them before he committed to something he knew he would regret. It helped that he had a job to do – it gave him something to focus on.

Reaching for his helm, he turned it over in his hands carefully. The dark lion's empty eyes stared back at him, as though demanding of its master an explanation for taking so long. Running his hand over a red horn, he finished his musings and turned the helm around. He closed his eyes as he slipped it on, and the breath he released filled the dark confines with warmth. Opening them again, he stared through the holes in his barrier. Like this, he felt himself apart from what went on – he could be a watcher properly.

Returning to the command deck, he opened a communication channel with his superior. The return signal hailed from an Atomos.

"Your Honor."

"**I take it Fenrir has regained consciousness.**"

"Yes, Your Honor."

The time that followed was spent detailing what he knew to the Judge Magister.

"… which leaves the question," he concluded his report, "of what we want to do with him, ultimately."

"**Indeed,**" Judge Gabranth replied. "**To interrogate him for information would leave him useless as a hostage. Yet, to keep him as a hostage would limit our methods for interrogation. It has to be either one or the other.**"

"And your decision?"

"… **It may not be mine to make.**"

He looked up uncertainly. "… Your Honor?"

"**Ghis is pushing for custody over this particular prisoner,**" the Judge Magister answered. "**Regardless of his reasons, he has a solid amount of backing behind him to warrant approval. Procedure will take time, but I know for certain that he will soon be granted the authority to have Fenrir brought on board the **_**Leviathan**_**.**"

"… Yes, Your Honor."

"**Whichever case happens, Griever, this assignment ends once the prisoner has left your charge,**" Judge Gabranth continued. "**You will return to Archadia for further orders.**"

At once, the young Judge pursued the issue. "I don't understand, Your Honor."

"**Lord Larsa has sent me a formal request to assign you as his personal escort.**" – Was he imagining it, or was the older Judge actually amused? – "**It would seem he misses your presence.**"

The lion head hid his nervous expression well, but not the slip in his words. "Sir-! I mean, Your Honor, I…"

"**I've already approved the request,**" Judge Gabranth cut in. "**No matter our orders, our priority is the young lord's safety and welfare. If he can trust in you, then perhaps he would be more receptive toward having company for his protection.**"

There was no further room for argument. Judge Griever could only sigh and give in, though a small smile played on his lips. With all the trouble that was going on between Dalmasca and the Archadian Empire, seeing Larsa again and actually being allowed to stay in his company seemed an ideal a job as any.

"**Finish this assignment well, Griever. Leave no regrets.**"

"Yes, Your Honor."

* * *

"Ghis, huh?" Chains rattled noisily as Fenrir shrugged his shoulders in a display of indifference. "Can't be any different from staying here."

"You don't seem to understand the situation," Judge Griever remarked.

"Should I?"

"Judge Ghis is not above torture if it will get him what he wants."

A soft chuckle. Another shrug. "No offense, but I've already prepared myself for a public execution."

Despite himself, the young Judge huffed in amusement. "You would."

The blond smirked as well. "So how long do I have?"

"That, I do not know," he admitted. "Procedure may or may not bend in his favor. You might be here for only a few days, or even up to a few weeks."

"… that's all I get, huh?" Aqua-colored eyes narrowed despite the persisting smirk on those features. "That won't do…"

Judge Griever stared through the holes in his iron mask, studying the prisoner intently. In an instant, he knew. A low growl of warning rumbled through the hollow of his helm, and he pointed a finger in warning at the caged blond.

"You will not try anything foolish."

Fenrir only sent me a too innocent "who, me?" look in return. With an irritated scoff, the young Judge turned and walked away.

* * *

With all that was said and done, it would have been too good to be true for nothing to happen. After all, as a Sky Pirate of such reputation, it was not a matter at all of whether or not Fenrir could escape his bindings, just a matter of how long it would take him to try it, and then to actually succeed. Still, for the _Ragnarok_ to have not only its brig broken out of, but its armory broken into without raising so much as a stir anywhere in the warship, it was an impressive feat for any one individual as much as a blow to the commander's pride in his reigns.

"… I thought I told you not to try anything foolish."

"Seriously?" the other retorted. "You think a fool could accomplish the same?"

The young Judge stared back unimpressed at the sight of the man clothed in nothing but the pair of breeches that were already riding low on his hips, the shackles gone from his chafed wrists and the large sword he just reclaimed snugly in sheathed in place behind his back. Either ignoring or unbothered by his circumstances, Fenrir continued to eye him with a defiant gleam in his eyes, smirking with roguish flair.

"… No, I suppose you're right," he conceded with an exasperated scoff. "This is not foolishness before me. This is suicide."

Fenrir chuckled, and smoothly changed the subject. A hand casually waved as he made his point: "You've obviously been expecting me. Either that, or you make a habit out of sleeping in full armor with your sword at your side."

"If you dare tell me you are trying to escape, it's too obvious you're not trying very hard," Judge Griever noted in turn. His eyes narrowed into a thin glare. "What is it you are truly after?"

A hand reached for the large weapon's hilt, and the blade came up parallel to the ground, its tip pointed at him. Despite the lack of success to pull off the look fully, it was there in those eyes – swirling, mixing with the mirth and arrogance was a severe intensity. The same look he had received only a day ago in the brig.

"I told you," Fenrir spoke softly, seriously, "I want a rematch."

Judge Griever tensed at once. This was a distraction, logic insisted. He was stalling for time. Taking him up on his offer right now was just playing into his hand. It was simply impossible to believe him as they were, right now.

"Drop your weapon, pirate," he growled.

"Make me, _boy_."

That did it. Logic, law and common sense be damned to the grave, _that did it_. With a furious snarl, the young Judge finally loosened his tight grip over his impulsive emotions and yanked his gunblade free from its scabbard. As steel rang in the air at its finest pitch, he saw the triumph dancing in the eyes before him. It was too late for regret – to put away his weapon first would be too damaging to his pride. Instead, ignoring protocol, he raised his blade in similar fashion to his opponent.

"Now _that_'s more like it."

A bare foot swept across the carpet, starting the slow act of circling. A sabaton moved as well, going the opposite direction. Step by step, they matched one another, one man silent and the other laden with the armor he wore.

"I already know what you hide, so why not lose the armor?" Fenrir called. "Surely you'd feel more comfortable without the extra weight holding you back."

"Your concern is unnecessary," Judge Griever answered. "As I am is enough to deal with the likes of you."

"Is that so…?"

In a bold move, Fenrir vaulted over the desk between them, knocking over a collection of papers and assorted rank-telling trinkets and sending them everywhere. The heavy sword slammed down at him, and he instinctively met it by swinging his own sword upward with every ounce of strength in his body. The clash was like a clap of thunder that rang in his ears, metal screeching as the surfaces ground against each other as the force of the individual blows decided which blade would give first.

And it was the giant sword that was pushed back, a deliberate move as the blond changed his stance and angle before swinging again. The Judge was forced to avoid the slicing move that would have cut him in half; he did not back up as any other would do, but instead jumped clear. The feat must have been assumed impossible, for Fenrir was slow to dodge, unable to escape as the heavy body slammed into his and knocked him to the ground once again. The sword clattered to the ground, just a little out of reach. His gunblade dented the metal deck in its own landing, an inch off from the blond man's ear.

Fenrir stared up at him, eyes wide, as a breathless chuckle escaped him. "You're insane."

"You were holding back," Judge Griever accused angrily. "Is this your idea of a rematch?"

He was still supporting his weight against the hilt of his weapon with both hands, and to move either one would have made him stumble and fall awkwardly upon the one he was straddling. Thus, he could do nothing but stiffen when the blond reached up and touched the lion's head that covered his. Fingers gently traced a well sculpted jaw, traveling down the lines of mane before taking hold and pulling upward.

The helm came off, hugged with childish possessiveness to the older man's chest in one arm, the other reaching up a second time, this time for the true face of the younger man previously hidden beneath. A thumb brushed gently over the new scar, the pad warm against the raised flesh. Amusement was gone from the eyes that looked upon it. There was something softer, more somber. He guessed it was regret.

"I gave you this…" he spoke softly. "I am sorry."

_Only because I'm 'a child',_ he wanted to retort, but his voice would not cooperate. Without his helmet to disguise the quality it beheld, to speak now would only answer the other's questions of exactly how young he was. Too engrossed in his inner frustrations, he was suddenly aware of the other shifting beneath him, raising himself to sit upright and meet him body to body.

Then his own eyes widened drastically, his body frozen in shock as Fenrir cupped his cheek in a manner that was too personal and leaned forward to press a soft kiss over the scar at its center, just above his nose. Still, his body would not move when the other drew back, but he felt himself flush when the other chuckled at his reaction.

"… Never been kissed before?" And the helm was returned over his head with the same gentleness. "You really are still a boy, aren't you?"

He was grateful for the mask of indifference the helm provided, for with impeccable timing his doors burst open. Imperials filled the entrance, forgoing the strict rules he had set about entering his quarters without authorization; he let it go just this once, considering the situation.

"My lord!" a Captain called. "Are you alright?"

"Take his weapon," he ordered, his voice quick to resume a flat tone. "And explain to me how he was able to escape."

"O-our apologies, Your Honor," the officer replied nervously. "We will add to the guards watching him." Then, to the other soldiers, "Return the prisoner to the brig."

"No. Take him to the interrogation room," he demanded stiffly. "He will not leave my sight for the rest of this journey. And for your own sakes, I trust you will do something about this atrocious security."

Ignoring the stammering of the soldier, the young Judge glared at the blond being forced to his feet by a soldier on either side. When those eyes met his sincerely, he was the first to turn away.

* * *

The guards were at least sincere in their attempt to step up their negligent security, starting with their captive. In addition to the replaced shackles, a pair of fetters were cuffed just above each of the blond man's ankles. Yet despite the added restraint to his limbs, he maintained a casual, even grace in his movements, surveying the walls of his latest confinement with interest.

"Nice place," he commented. "Though, the lack of torture devices is a little boring."

"It is not in my business to abuse those in my custody," Judge Griever answered, "but in your case, I'm tempted to make an exception."

A brow arched curiously. "Was it something I said?"

His hand moved before he registered the act, but he was able to direct its anger into the table instead of the original target. Yet, even with the echo still sounding in the air, he knew his punch did not have the strength he expected. He realized then that what transpired was affecting him more than he realized.

"… What right?" he demanded, barely keeping his voice even. "What right did you have to…?"

"I apologize." The man actually sounded sincere about it. "But with what little time I have before I leave your company, I could not think of another way."

"To what, then? Insult me further?"

"To get your attention."

He paused, his anger giving way slightly to puzzlement. He looked up, staring at the other, trying to find some form of malice or mischief behind the façade; he found none.

"Twice we have crossed blades, and twice I have seen your face," the Sky Pirate continued. "Your true face. I wish to know your name as well."

"You already have my name," he replied, his voice lacking its usual contempt or condescendence.

"Not as a Judge," the other insisted. "But as the person trapped under that iron shell."

He faltered, turning away once more. For once in his life as a Judge, he questioned his own youth and experience in handling a matter that had become so very messy. Sensing his withdrawal, the other latched on almost desperately.

"It's Cloud."

He looked up at once. "What?"

"My name," Fenrir explained firmly. "is Cloud."

He saw what the other was doing, and he noted how much of a risk the man was taking, just for that little chance. He was definitely a Sky Pirate, considering all the gambling he had done with fate thus far.

The man… Fenrir… Cloud was waiting on him. He could have so easily refused…

"… My name is Squall," his words came out instead. Then, completely unnecessarily, "I am sixteen."

Aqua eyes widened slightly, a strange smile curling lips. "You're younger than I thought."

He huffed, turning away again. Already, his mind was plagued with worry and self-condemnation for his decision. Only Judge Gabranth and Lord Larsa knew his name before, and here he was handing it out to a prisoner – a pirate, even…!

"Thank you."

The words that should have eased his thoughts only prompted them to assault him even more. The metal confines of his helm that should have been his protective barrier now threatened to suffocate him. Already, he regretted his own decision to keep this man by his side at all hours, so effectively cutting off his own means of his escape.

… _What do I do?_

With its jaws clamped around his head, the dark lion reminded him of who he was, reminded him of his duty to the Empire and to the young Lord Larsa. _Do not hesitate,_ the lion seemed to growl at him from the depths of its mouth. _You know what must be done._

He did know. It would have all been so easy to do.

Fenrir- no, _Cloud_ had to enter the equation, had to make things more difficult for him. This prisoner was a dangerous man, both in his skill as well as in his very soul. He was a man like no other, and holding onto him was like holding a flame in a bare hand. He wanted no more than to let go of him.

And right now, he wanted even less to hand him over to the likes of Judge Ghis.

_Someone tell me… What do I do?_


	3. Chapter 3

_Living with a wolf is a constant contest between one and the other. Each one quests for control, and though the man may have it initially, he will always be challenged for his place. The wolf watches the man, and learns from him. The wolf learns to earn trust, to see what the man wants… desires…_

_Every living creature has something they need, and it has been said that where need is present, control is simple._

* * *

The game he played was a dangerous one, but he enjoyed the risk it entailed – his way of life always did involve a hefty amount of gambling, the stakes always different each time. He was no stranger to limitation, either, and added that to his challenge.

A few days at the very least, he had been told, and a few weeks at the very most. Already, a full week had passed since his capture, and every new day was more borrowed time. All throughout, his captor remained true to his word, keeping him at his side at all hours. That was what led them to their current scenario, as the young Judge busied himself with a pen and paper – an odd sight for one so fully clad in a warrior's armor – he sat in the chair originally meant for guests, left to his own devices.

In a moment of curiosity, Cloud reached across the table and picked up one of the many trinkets that covered the wooden surface. Holding it up to the light, he whistled as the refracting beams changed color in the center of the crystal orb he held between his fingers. "What's this little thing?"

"That is a defective bit of magicite," the Judge answered without looking up. "A Moogle apprentice tried trapping a foreign object in the center of a Memstone and then shaping it into a perfect sphere, just to see if such a feat could be done. An ingenious project, but all it made was this fancy display piece with no power in it. It's worthless."

Humming in a show of interest, the blond brought the orb closer and peered within it. "… Looks like a white feather coiled up in there."

"The Moogle told me it came from a rare Chocobo," the other added. Then, with a soft huff, "It's nothing more than a toy, really. Now put it back before you break it."

Smirking, Cloud slouched against the back rest, still popping the orb up and down in the air. "What's a guy like you doing with something like this?"

"It's for Lord Larsa," the Judge replied. "With all that is going on, he rarely leaves Archades. Each time I am to see him, I try to acquire things like these whenever I have the chance…" He paused – Cloud could picture him smiling behind that helm. "… and he _is_ rather fond of unusual objects."

"Is it healthy for a lord to act like a child?" the blond queried, a brow arched and his head tilted just slightly.

In response, the other shrugged. "He is barely eleven; it is well within his rights."

"Ah…" – his hands proceeded into the basics of contact juggling, just to irk the guy – "You mean the youngest noble son of House Solidor. _That_ Larsa."

"He is to be referred to as _Lord_ Larsa," the Judge corrected at once, finally looking up just long enough to jab the pen his way in a reprimanding manner. "You would do well to remember that."

"And how is it you are on such good terms with _Lord_ Larsa?" Cloud challenged. This time, the other bowed his head once more and went back to his task.

"None of your business… For the last time, Fenrir, put it back."

Chuckling, the blond gripped the orb properly and set it back on its small stand with care. "Yes, sir."

A soft grunt was all he got this time in return, but they were once more at peace with one another. As an unspoken truce, neither of the two called the other by the names they had revealed that day in the interrogation room; not out in the open, not where they might be heard by others. It was one more secret for them to keep, one more factor to strengthen that connection between them. Admittedly, it was barely enough to be called a connection, but Cloud was not about to complain. So long as there was something there, he could work with it.

Cloud looked again at the desk so liberally covered in baubles and fancy toys, and he knew each and every one of them was destined for the same receiver. With the privacy he had in his quarters, Judge Griever had never thought to hide them before. To look at them now made what the blond noticed all the more obvious…

* * *

_There is always a way to win his trust. Find out what he needs most and give it to him._

* * *

For a sixteen-year-old to attain the rank of men well into their prime, it no doubt required a prodigy's level of talent both as a soldier and as a scholar. It also required an entire lifetime of effort and wholehearted dedication to not only be deemed worthy, but to maintain that worthiness. The young lad who would become Judge Griever probably gave his entire childhood and future to the Imperial army and to House Solidor. Perhaps that was why he was so loyal to his superior Judge Gabranth, and so attached to the fourth son of the Emperor that he would gather so many gifts for him, that he would even know what the young lord was partial toward.

It was clear to him that the teenager hidden within the Judge armor was starved for companionship.

Being so close to him only made things easier; already the other regarded him with a patient tolerance, and while he still ignored him was at least willing to talk, as though sympathizing with how long the hours seemed. The books that he was allowed to take from the meager collection in a corner were thick worn novels of literature, and he often initiated conversation by bringing up any one point he found there. And that intelligent boy always knew what he was talking about, and always – with some coaxing – had an interpretation of his own, an opinion of the characters and their actions.

And when there were, finally, no more texts left to read from, they moved on to other topics. Initially, both avoided politics for obvious reasons, instead talking about the places they had visited, the creatures they had seen, the battles they had fought. There had been a rare moment of childish excitement, when Griever detailed a witness' account of Gabranth – not yet a Judge at the time – taking on a behemoth and defeating it. The youth realized his slip seconds too late, and lapsed into a tense silence.

"… So is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"That old saying," he explained, "that eating a fresh behemoth steak does wonders for your vitality."

Griever snorted, his muttered "How should _I_ know?" echoing around the sides of his helm, but he relaxed.

There was progress. With each conversation that went by, the young Judge seemed more at ease with him. His previously cold, professional tone was fading, warming into something more casual, more friendly. There were times when he allowed himself to laugh. There were times when he was the one to initiate talk between them. Behind that impassive lion's face, Cloud often wondered if the boy was smiling.

Yet, he surprised himself at exactly how speedy that progress turned out to be when it was Griever, not he, who first asked about his motivations.

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean."

"With skills like yours, you could have easily landed a high rank in the army," Griever detailed his question. "So why did you become a Sky Pirate?"

He shrugged. "I signed on for the fame and glory like everyone else, then I stayed on because of job satisfaction. Why, are you interested?"

Griever paused – Cloud sensed his hesitation – and then he answered truthfully. "Being a soldier is all I know."

"Ah…" The other's curiosity was so genuine, it was endearing. Smiling, Cloud got up from his seat and looked up at the ceiling. There were no windows here in this room, perhaps to further enhance the security of the place. It only made it feel more like a box. A prison. He stared at the plain slate, his expression wistful as he recalled what had to lie beyond that, beyond the hull of the airship.

"There's nothing like riding those clouds; no armor and no army, just you and the wings at your back. The sky sees no limit, nothing in that horizon is there to hold you back. Just for a second… you feel a little less trapped than you usually are." He stopped, chuckling at the strangely poetic turn of his words – perhaps all that literature had influenced him somewhat. He arched his head, turning to where Griever was still sitting, still watching him. "You should try it some time. Once you've had a taste of that freedom, there's no turning back."

"… freedom…" Griever repeated the word thoughtfully. Then, "and what does that have to do with you fighting for the Resistance?"

Resistance, not insurgence. Cloud held back a triumphant smirk at the unconscious change that resulted from all their prior talks. Instead, he gave his next answer:

"We share a common interest. The Resistance fights for freedom, in general. I fight for the freedom to keep flying in the sky I love so much." Another pause, and the smirk he kept at bay softened, adding to the small smile he still wore comfortably. "Though, I admit running with them has changed my priorities a little."

"What do you mean-?" The question halted abruptly as Cloud closed the distance between them once more. His fingers brushed against the lion's jaw, the metal cold to the touch.

"They don't just fight for themselves, but for the young," he explained softly. "They fight for those who still have a future."

Indifference was hard to feign when the body was too tense, the voice changed even by just a little. "… so you still think of me as a child."

He chuckled, his hand still lingering. "I think of you as a successor."

"What of?"

"Dreams."

He could feel the eyes move within those black holes in the mask, staring intently at him, confused and uncertain but still too proud to ask for a confirmation.

He drew his hand back from that small patch of metal that was now warm.

* * *

_Then create for him another need, and fulfill that also._

* * *

More days went by, more borrowed time that he could not help but be grateful for.

He started to make it a point, with every chance he was had, to touch the young Judge. He was always careful to make it seem either as an accident or as a careless gesture of friendship, and as much he always made sure to let that physical contact between them stay a little longer than what was necessary. Always his bare skin against that hard armor, always lingering just long enough to feel his warmth pass from him to that barrier.

And he could feel every reaction from the youth. Each time it happened, even when both pretended to not notice it, he noticed the most subtle tensing, and he could read the other's emotions like an open book: bewilderment with every heated touch that affected him beyond the physical level, confusion at the thoughts that were flying through his head, frustration over the dilemma he was presented with, further apprehension whenever contact was about to be renewed.

As he had thought, Griever had too little experience in this field.

Yet for him to be completely clueless would be an insult to his intelligence.

Another week had passed. Time kept slipping away, running out.

The first night of the new week, once again in the privacy of Griever's quarters, he had perhaps been a little bolder in his actions, and the aggressive move prompted the hand wrapped in its gauntlet to grab his wrist in passing.

"Don't mock me, Fenrir," the lion growled at him in warning.

Even in his anger, the grip seemed less forceful than usual. Cloud took the chance. "What do you mean?"

"I admit to being young, but I am not an idiot," Griever replied in a more dangerous tone. "I know what you are trying to do."

"Do you, really…" It was not a question, that challenge. There was hesitation, a furious silent battle going on within that iron helm.

"… not like this," the words were traitorous in their content, in their shakiness. "… Not this way." Then calmness returned, and Griever attempted to make up for his error. "You do not want this."

His mocking laugh was humorless. "You don't know what I want," he replied ambiguously. Then, leaning closer, "you don't even know what _you_ want."

Again the boy fell silent, perhaps not trusting even himself to speak. Slipping free from the hold, Cloud reached for the helm. There was no sign of protest, and he took that as permission to pull off the helm altogether. Again Squall was revealed to him, his eyes haunted as they watched him with a mix of uncertainty and wariness. The helm was discarded, his hands cupping the boy's chin.

"Does this bother you?" he asked, just to be sure.

Squall paused. Though he was not exactly in the best shape for making decisions, he answered, ultimately, by shaking his head. Still silent, still afraid of revealing that final bit about his true self. Smiling in reassurance, Cloud lowered his hands.

"Don't think too much into this," he spoke quietly, watching as each word caused another shiver, "and see with your instincts for a change."

Before Squall could question his words, he looped his wrists over the brunet head and closed the distance between them. With the hard line of taut shackles pressed against the back of his skull and Cloud's nose bare inches from his, the boy found himself staring deep into eyes of blue-green that seemed to burn with intensity. Those eyes flicked down – at his lips, he realized – and then back up. Eye contact was reestablished, and that was when the blond leaned in.

He froze as the man kissed him for the second time, this time on the mouth. His mind raced out of his control, and he found himself unable to fully understand what was going on anymore. The lips that held his were gentle, pulling away ever so slightly before going in again. He felt the pressure applied first to his lower lip, then to his upper. He numbly registered that perhaps he should have been repulsed at the concept of kissing another man, instead of merely stunned out of action.

Cloud was being patient, guiding their bodies closer. He could still feel the tenseness that had seized the boy, knew that it was a matter of waiting it out. To draw back now would leave no conclusion – it was either acceptance or refusal, and both results would only come with waiting for a response. There was not enough to work with, especially when it came to such skittish virgins.

He was too caught up in his own train of thought to notice that the other had indeed relaxed. Whatever decision Squall had come to was not revealed, but now those silver-blue eyes were closed. Pressure was being returned, though a little clumsy as the inexperienced youth attempted to mimic his lip movements. So far so good, Cloud decided. He let them play a little longer, let the boy get the feel a little more before he cast his coins into the next gamble.

Again Squall startled when Cloud brushed his tongue over his lips. This time, it seemed more out of confusion than fear. The blond hummed against him before trying again, this time probing gently at closed lips in silent request for entry. Hesitantly, the mouth opened, and in went the tongue. At first contact with hot velvet, another low hum escaped between them – a moan. He wondered for a brief second who was responsible. Perhaps it did not matter… no, it did not matter at all – he had barely drawn back when it was Squall who leaned in to renew the lost contact.

Sure enough, the boy's breaths had calmed, even deepened. Hands had moved as well, cold armor and rough leather pressed against Cloud's spine and the back of his neck as Squall sought for purchase, trying to keep him close. His fingers twitched, unable to do much with the shackles in the way. Still, he had experience on his side, and patiently guided the younger in his endeavors.

One hand moved, sliding over armor with a dull clatter, before raising again and touching the lock on the shackles. The movement surprised him, and he drew back at the same time as Squall did. Silver-blue bore deep into blue-green, searching desperately. Even now, no longer able to think straight, the lion cub clung tightly to that last bit of paranoia, rightfully so.

_Can I trust you?_

His answer was to relax again, to renew the kiss between them. There was more hesitation before the key probed blindly, missing a few times before finally entering the lock and turning. The catch sprung apart, the shackles falling to the ground noisily. At once freed hands drew apart, fingers threading through soft brown hair to earn a soft, shaky sigh. His lips started to trail away, moving upward. As they found once more the midpoint of the scar, they lingered there almost reverently.

His hands moved again, reaching this time for the boy's arms and pulling them from their grasps. Sliding off the gauntlets and discarding them to the ground, each hand attended to an individual cowter, and then moved up to the pauldrons. Slowly, under the administrations of his dexterous fingers, he stripped off the armor piece by piece. Squall did not fight him, nor did he attempt to help as he stayed in one place.

The sabatons were the last to be removed, and before him was Squall – purely Squall – and even with a shirt and breeches at least two sizes too large for him hanging loosely on his frame, he suddenly seemed more naked and vulnerable than Cloud was in just the pair of loose breeches. Without the armor, he looked his full sixteen years, his still boyish form smaller and thinner in its sudden exposure. Bare hands reached for him again, clinging to him.

He could feel Squall trembling.

His hands raked through chocolate bangs one more time, and each kiss he placed gently on the bowed head was echoed with a soft murmur of reassurance. He could feel the aching in his chest as he witnessed the staggering amount of trust that this teenager – this child – was placing in him. He was too innocent – for someone who could kill with cold and swift efficiency, he was just too innocent…

"… please…"

The whisper in his ear chilled him to the core, as he heard for the first time what the boy truly sounded like. He could not truly consider what the boy was asking of him, but he supposed he could guess. Carefully stepping over and around the mess of armor all over the floor, he guided the boy to his own bed and set him down on top of the sheets. His hand reached up to take the youngster's chin, his thumb stroking under a lower lip as he reinitiated eye contact between them.

He had wanted to say something, anything to alleviate the fear trapped within that expression before him, but nothing came to him. Instead, he lowered himself to renew the embrace between them, comforting the boy just for a little longer before they proceeded.

And when he started to undo the ties on the front of Squall's shirt, the youth did not stop him.

* * *

When Cloud next awoke, he found himself in a familiar haze that smelled of lust and sweat. When he shifted, he found soft sheets of a proper bed beneath him, a rumpled duvet barely covering his naked torso. Under the blanket he could feel the heated touch of an arm on his, and by his ear was the soft rustle of exhalation from the brunet still sound asleep beside him. As he noticed the first time he was witnessing the other actually letting down his guard for such deep slumber, he vaguely recalled what had transpired the other night.

As he started to push off the bed, if only to use the facilities and regain some appearance of decency, the hand clutching his forearm tightened its grip in defiance. He recognized first, with amusement, the possessiveness of a young lover dissatisfied with his partner for sneaking off. Then he recognized, with chilling dread, that it had only been part of it. That grip – the rest of it, at least – was still that of a child clinging to his caregiver, fearful of abandonment.

He had allowed himself to forget.

Pulling free elicited a soft murmur of complaint, but Squall slumbered still. Sitting up, Cloud looked back at the head of rumpled hair, cursing silently at his own oversight.

This was no longer a game.

He had taken it too far.


	4. Chapter 4

Squall woke up groggy, a sensation he felt distinctly unfamiliar with. For the first time in a long while, he found himself unwilling to get up right away and go about his duties. He felt… indulgent, lazy, and also greatly satisfied, for reasons that evaded him. A hand was threading through his hair, stroking with just enough pressure to lightly massage his scalp and fill him with even more sensations of pleasant comfort. In his state of partial wakefulness, he did not care that he was smiling carelessly or purring in contentment.

There was a soft chuckle over his head, a voice he vaguely recognized speaking to him: "Come on, wake up." And at his unintelligible murmur of refusal, added, "I'd leave you alone, but I need a shower and my only article of modesty is not coming off short of tearing it to shreds. I'm honestly fine with that, but having me wander the corridors naked may leave those poor soldiers of yours in varying levels of shock and distress."

Grumbling low in his throat, the boy finally cracked crusty eyelids apart to stare up at the face hovering over his. His hand moved to take hold of the one still in his hair, and he pulled it lower to press knuckles to his lips. He drew in a deep breath, taking in the scent of the other indulgently. His actions earned him a more teasing laugh.

"You are such a spoiled brat," Cloud scolded lightly. "How many would be so patient and generous for a first time? You're lucky I happen to enjoy the receiving end more, otherwise you'd find yourself unable to walk for a week."

Finally, the events of the night before caught up with him. His mind focused, sharpening with alarming clarity, and the feelings of warmth and comfort he had been enjoying moments before were suddenly washed away by an icy wave of dread. His free hand reached up, managing to touch Cloud's forehead before the man understood and lowered himself a little to give access to soft blond strands.

"… Do you regret this?" he heard himself ask. He realized a second after that he was already comfortable with speaking to the other outside his armor, then surprised himself at how little he cared for that revelation. But still Squall caught it – that uncertain gleam in those blue-green eyes – before it was masked quickly, and Cloud pulled his hand free to stroke the boy's cheek.

"Do you?"

There was no answer for him to give, nothing that he could squeeze pass the sudden lump in his throat. Instead, he sighed – felt his breath shudder – as he leaned into the touch and closed his eyes once more. He wanted to forget, to simply accept the present as it was. He wanted to enjoy this fleeting moment that he might never experience again, before it would inevitably be torn from him. He heard the sheets rustle, and then the hand moved from his cheek to brush his bangs aside. A feathery light kiss was planted on his forehead. Cloud's voice was a soft whisper in his ear:

"Then there is nothing to think about."

He felt himself shiver, and he gave up. What was it that had happened, exactly, to make him so much weaker – near powerless – around this man? What had changed between them… or had things really changed at all since that first time they crossed swords?

His inner monologue was cut off by a soft slap to his upper arm and Cloud's complaining mutter, "Will you get up already? I want my shower."

He could not help but chuckle himself at that blunt statement. At last he sat upright, the duvet slipping from his bare skin as he lifted a knee to prop his elbow on and lean his chest against. Looking down pass the edge of the bed, he saw indeed the pair of rumpled breeches still bunched around the man's ankles, unable to fully slip off with the fetters in the way. Impressed with how easily the man was able to move even with such a cumbersome hobble, he scanned the floor until he found his gauntlet.

Only then did he emerge from the warmth of his bed to take it in hand, to pop free the thin key from a specialized slot. No sooner had he released the man's legs from iron and cloth when there was a careful knocking on the locked door. He did not speak, neither did he stop his actions, the clattering of metal as good an indication as any that he was awake and moving about.

"Judge Griever," a voice called uncertainly from the other side of the wooden barrier. "Your pardon, my lord, but there is an urgent message waiting for you at the command deck."

He did not answer, and eventually the messenger took the initiative to leave. As muffled, barely audible steps drifted away, he scooped up the pair of leg irons – and then the shackles that were just within reach – and set them on his desk. Cloud had already moved on ahead of him; there was the sound of running water, but the door had been left open. He stepped in, keeping his back to the other, as he used the sink.

"Not joining me?" the blond drawled under the warm spray.

Scoffing, the youth tossed a handful of cold water in the other's direction. Admittedly, just wiping clean did not have the same effect as a proper rinse would, but he had already wasted too much time in his moment of self-indulgence. He toweled dry in a few minutes before stepping out once more, and a few minutes more were spent changing into fresh attire, then replacing his armor over his body. As each piece of that iron shell was returned to its rightful place, he felt calmer, more distanced from his dilemma. A situation he could not handle as himself, he could handle as a Judge.

The helm was the last to return to its place before he crossed the room and unlocked the door. Everything was automatic from there, and he soon found himself walking down the corridor leading to the command deck. The Captain – most likely the same one who came to him earlier – looked up upon his approach, and startled immediately.

"Sir…!"

He did not give time for the other to comment on the sudden lack of Cloud following behind him, instead gesturing sharply for the man to relay the message. The man was quick to obey, knowing better than to argue. There was a brief moment of delay, and then…

"**Griever.**"

At once the young Judge looked up, and the sinking feeling in his gut that had never truly left him reminded him of its presence.

"… Your Honor."

* * *

Acquiring a fresh towel, Cloud had dried himself off with still no sign of the young brunet's return. Comfortable in the amount of privacy presented, he seated himself once more by the desk. Immediately his hand reached out for the trinkets laid there, and he picked up a small figurine expertly shaped from wood. It had the appearance of a small lion, except that its paws were comically large and its mane took on a conical shape at the back of its head. It was posed in what seemed a dance, with only one foot on the stand. Stenciled in silver along the stand's side was the word "Moomba".

He was stroking the surprisingly realistic lines of fur when the door unlocked and swung aside. The suit of leonine armor clanked in, and the lion head stared pointedly in his direction, nothing as endearing or adorable as the tiny sculpture in his hands. He found he disliked the armor more each time he saw it – as long as he was talking to that helm, he did not know if it was Judge Griever or Squall who answered him.

"… you're still here," the lion growled.

Shrugging, he set the little Moomba figurine back on the desk. "My point about streaking in front of your troops still stands."

The door shut, the lock clicking in place once more. The young Judge crossed the distance between them, stopping before him. He was half expecting a reprimand for playing with the toys meant for a real child, but it did not come.

"… Why?" the Judge spoke quietly, his tone wavering. "Why are you still here?"

"I just said-" He was interrupted as a hand reached toward his ear. His earlobe was pinched firmly between a thumb and forefinger, not enough to hurt but enough to make a point.

"This earring…" It was definitely Squall speaking to him through that Judge's mask. "Not once have you taken it off. Every so often, all throughout your capture, you fiddle with it. When you think I'm not listening, you talk to it."

He blinked carefully, staring up into the dark depths of those black, hollow eyes in the lion's head. He did not say anything, not even an obvious "so?" for a retort; he sensed that the boy was about to continue anyway, prompting or no prompting. The thumb moved a little, brushing the underside of a ring fixed into a small silver wolf's head like a doorknocker.

"… this isn't just an earring, is it?" he queried softly. "… It's a tracer."

Cloud did not attempt to deny it, but he winced when the pinch did increase in strength to a painful level.

"When are they coming for you?" the Judge – Squall demanded urgently. More strength, more assertiveness. "Why are they not here yet?"

"Ah…" the blond cried out at last, his left eye squinting slightly from the uncomfortable pressure. "Alright, I hear you. Let go before you tear it off."

The fingers sprung apart instantly, the hand drawing away. Cloud reached up to touch his tender earlobe, lightly brushing over skin before checking the state of his earring. Finding it still intact and its signal undisturbed, he breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, _someone_'s in a mood…"

Squall ignored the grumbled complaint. Stepping pass the blond, he yanked open the doors to his wardrobe and reached inside. Cloud barely raised his hands in time to catch the pile of folded cloth and pair of old boots tossed his way.

"Put them on."

Eying familiar threads, Cloud set the boots on the floor before he unfolded the top piece. It was a slightly worn, patched shirt; his shirt. "… You kept my clothes?" he asked aloud. He could see new stitching where he remembered a recent rip under the sleeve. "… you _mended_ them?"

"I asked you a question," Squall spoke instead. "Will they be here, or not?"

"And you expect me to just tell you, _why_?"

"The message was from Judge Ghis. His request has been approved, and he's coming here."

There it was: the deadline. Everything seemed to fall apart in that one moment of truth, that realization of utter, utter futility in all he had done prior. The young Judge watched him falter, seemed to understand.

"The Atomos is already on its way," he continued flatly. "If your friends do not arrive soon enough, they won't find you here, and they won't last against the Imperial 8th Fleet."

It was obvious the youngster was vexed, struggling with conflicting emotions as he squeezed his gloved fists so tightly that the leather creaked. Cloud knew why; he knew even more clearly which side would win. The lion stared at him once more, black eyes searching him; all they found was a calm façade, and it only seemed to aggravate him more.

"This is my job," he growled, more to himself than the one listening to his words. "I have my responsibility. Lord Larsa is waiting."

"I understand," Cloud spoke to him, his tone impassive. "So this is where we part ways?"

He heard a true, rumbled growl, and then the Judge turned away. Cloud did not need a clearer answer. Silently, he started to slip his clothes on. Once he was fully clothed and each boot was tugged over each foot, he stood up and turned to the one waiting for him.

"I have one last question for you."

"… …"

"If you knew all along, why didn't you take this from me?" he asked carefully, fiddling with the earring again out of habit, "Why give me this chance of escape, useless as it is now?"

Squall had his back to him, his hands pressed against the hard wood of his desk. One moved, hovering over the trinkets before selecting one – the feather orb that should have become a Memstone.

"… why…?" he murmured, his voice more hollow than usual even with the helm. His hand returned to the desk, pushing the orb into the wood as he put his weight on it. What he said next was wavering, sounding almost like a sob:

"… _how am I supposed to know…?_"

Cloud realized then what had happened. He recalled a time, still so recent – too recent – when a young man in armor of black and gray who would not hesitate to point a sword at his throat had stood before him. That young man had been the Judge that he did not know, up until the point when the helm came off. That young man would not have hesitated now, would not have let things come to this.

That young man was gone. All that armor had been a physical symbol of the barriers in his vulnerable, youthful mind. Had he not been a teenager, had he not been one so socially withdrawn, Cloud did not even dare think he could have achieved so much in such a short period of time. If only the rescue he was counting on had come for him, he would have won his game.

… if only it was still a game.

He did not touch the young Judge, for fear of breaking him further. He had already reduced him to this, and he was concerned – to touch him again, he might lose his resolve. He could still speak, but the words he truly wished to say failed to leave him, not with all they implied.

Instead, "… Don't forget our rematch."

Squall choked on a bitter laugh and turned around. "What rematch?" he snapped. "Do you actually still think we c-"

"Yes," he answered evenly. "We can. I want to fight you properly, with all that I am against all that you are without that armor or the Empire to hold you back. I want to fight until we have a true better between us, and I will."

It was a dangerous oath, an impulsive promise he was making. It promised more than the words he said; it promised freedom for them both. Squall was waiting for a sign of cracking, any hint that he was not up to such a task. He did not know how, but he stood his ground and held true against the hard gaze.

"I will live to fulfill it," he continued quietly, solemnly, "I will make it more than just a dream."

He felt the anger fading, replaced by frustration. The Judge straightened, his eyes never leaving the blond before him. If he was to say anything, he seemed to decide against it; instead he held up the shackles, and Cloud extended his hands meekly in offering. Metal was cuffed over his wrists none too gently, and he winced at the familiar, uncomfortable feel of its magicite at work. He turned, eying the remaining pair of manacles sitting on the desk with a sense of dread.

When the young Judge did not reach for them, he brought himself to ask – for fear of jinxing himself – "What about those?"

Griever did not even turn around. "What about them?"

The hand encased in metal and leather was at his now clothed back, pushing him forward. At the center of that warmth was the cool touch of a crystal .

* * *

There was droning of machinery and the loud roar of wind as the platform which made up half of the floor for the _Ragnarok_'s hangar lowered steadily. The Atomos that hailed from the Dreadnought _Leviathan_ approached slowly, only boarding once the platform came to a grinding halt. Then, as it had been lowered, it was raised once more, no quicker or slower than it had been without a cargo. With a final loud clanking, metal met with metal, muting out the wind and calming the engine. The carrier ship lowered its boarding ramp, then, for its passengers.

Escorted by a small squad of Imperials, Judge Ghis strode grandly over the metal plates. He wore gold armor pieces over a traditional officer's attire of white and red; colors that perhaps emphasized his feeling of superiority over the other Judge Magisters in their darker color schemes. Sheathed upon his belt was a broadsword and secure in his left hand was a solid war fan, both weapons also colored in deep rich gold. Even with the hammerhead-shaped helm over his head, he came across as haughty and disdainful to whomever laid eyes on him.

Judge Griever was waiting for him. His right hand was on the prisoner Fenrir's shoulder, keeping him firmly in place. The Sky Pirate held his head high, defiantly meeting eyes with the Judge Magister in his approach. Bound hands squeezed tightly into white-knuckled fists, but he remained still as the man who would be his next jailer finally came up to him.

"So this is the man, Griever?" Judge Ghis asked, his voice thick with contempt.

"Yes, Your Honor," Judge Griever answered, his own tone respectful. His hand moved, pushing the prisoner forward. Yet the Judge Magister made no move to receive him.

"_This_ is the infamous Sky Pirate, Fenrir?" he continued his questions. "You are certain of that?"

"I am, my lord," the younger man replied. "He matches the description detailed in all our reports. There is no doubting that he is Fenrir."

Judge Ghis took in the fearless visage of the blond man before him, and he hummed in thought. "… and what do you say, boy? Do you deny it?"

Fenrir smirked in reply, meeting the haughty front with an equal show of arrogance.

"… No? Not even a final word?" – the Judge Magister's hand moved. – "As you wish, then…"

There was a blinding crack of pain that collided with the blond man's jaw, knocking him backward with its force. As he fell to the deck, Judge Ghis' drawn sword was turned in grip. The sight of the long golden blade prompted a startled move from Judge Griever at once.

"Your Honor-!"

"If he is Fenrir, then for him to actually allow his own capture would mean he has nothing to offer us," Judge Ghis declared. "Indeed, there is nothing of worth we can gain from him, save one thing…"

The greatsword lowered, its edge drawing blood from an unguarded throat.

"… his life."

"Sir!" Griever protested at once in alarm. "Your Honor, this is not what you-"

"Are _you_ presuming to tell me what to do now, Griever?" the Judge demanded sharply. When the younger fell silent, he returned his attention back to the fallen prisoner beneath his blade. "This is your trial, Fenrir. As Judge Magister, I hereby condemn you, sentence you… and now, I will execute you."

Fenrir did not move from where he had fallen, did not turn his head for fear of cutting his own throat, but there in his eyes was a burning blue-green flame of anger. He glared in defiance, not even flinching as the blade drew away and was instead raised over his head.

"One death is all it takes to scatter the rest," the Judge Magister stated. "Consider this your honor, 'Fenrir'."

"_No, Ghis!_"

Again, the boy Judge's cry fell on deaf ears. The blade came down fast and hard. Instinctively, Fenrir shut his eyes and braced for the final blow.

Then his eyes opened again at the sound of metal striking full force against metal. He looked up again, found himself staring at the now familiar sight of a single-edged blade emerging from the chambers of a revolver.

"… Griever…?!" he uttered. Then, in panic, "_You idiot, what do you think you're doing?!_"

Griever did not answer, only pressing harder against the blade he held at bay. His finger was quivering from where it hovered so close to the trigger, but with his loyalty torn so suddenly in two different directions, he did not pull.

"Such a disappointment," Judge Ghis spoke softly, his tone cold and dangerous. "You should never have become a Judge."

Abruptly, the metal fan clattered to the deck. A hand glowing red with energy pressed against the dark silver fauld.

"I had need of only one death…"

And then the energy erupted into blinding light and searing heat. At its center was a muffled, metallic clash of crushing impact, followed by a louder clatter of something hitting the deck. Precious seconds were wasted before the "flame" cleared, leaving those who had not turned away in time to blink through the spots in their vision. There was no soot or ash, not even the smell of smoke, and the deck was as untouched as before.

Two weapons lay over the metal plates: one was the golden war fan, just within reaching distance of the Judge Magister who had dropped it earlier. The other was the gunblade. Debris was scattered all over the floor – metal bits that were dark silver and black. More fell as Judge Ghis slowly withdrew his fingers from where they had sunk into the shattered plate of armor. Then he pulled away altogether, and the limp body collapsed to the ground at his feet amidst startled exclamations from the watching Imperials.

Fenrir was unable to move from where he lay, unable to tear his eyes away from the lifeless form before him. He could barely even breathe, and his fingers were trembling without a weapon he could hold onto. He could hear the Judge Magister retrieving his fan, acting as though he had not just mercilessly assaulted a kid with Black Magick. He could feel himself being pulled up into a kneeling position by the front of his shirt, the blade raising above his head once more.

"Tis' a pity," Judge Ghis stated coolly, "but we cannot abide traitors among us." The blade moved again. "And now, to deal with you-"

He never heard the rest of the sentence as the once clean blade suddenly sliced across his chest with pushing force. There was blood, so much blood, spraying hot from the line that had appeared on him. He felt himself crumple, watched as everything seemed to dim into a haze of red.

He vaguely registered the blurred shapes above him moving strangely, faster than usual. He heard muffled sounds - … sirens? Alarms? _"What is-" "My lord, we need to-" "-the platform! H-"_ – and quite suddenly the shapes were gone, replaced by a shadow above him. He wondered, in his slowly fading mind, if something was finally happening in his favor…

A sudden splash of refreshing coolness hit him in the chest, and he gasped as powerful curative energy swam over him, sealing what would have been a fatal wound. His senses sharpened once more, bringing focus back to that dark blur that had been hovering over his head. It was a young man with blond hair dressed in uniquely tailored black overalls, and in his hand he was still gripping the emptied glass vial. Fenrir recognized him at once, and breathed a sigh of relief before grumbling, "You're late."

"Yeah, yeah, but honestly," the young man scolded in return, though relief shone in his eyes, "can't stay out of sight without getting yourself killed, can you Wolfie?"

He was still slow, still sore when the other pushed him to sit upright. He could see they were alone; the platform had been lowered and the Atomos with the Judge Magister long gone. Red light was flashing, sirens blaring in warning; he suspected the third member of their crew was responsible for that. As the young man produced a lock pick from one of the overalls' pockets and started fiddling with the shackles on his wrists, he delivered his report.

"One of the other ships finally picked up your signal about half an hour ago, and I'll tell you – for a big, red, drake-shaped thing just sitting in the clouds, it sure was hard to find. We managed to get in through the access panel above the airlock chamber, and the others are raising some hell to keep them distracted while we looked for you. Still, we'd better hurry back to the _Highwind_ before they catch on to us."

"… you didn't damage my ship, did you?" He received an offended huff in response.

"There's not so much as one scratch on her – you can see for yourself later!" – Then with a telltale "click", the shackles came undone and were pulled off him. – "Come on. I wasn't kidding about the hurrying out of here."

"Wait…" He pushed pass the other, his eyes landing on Griever's unmoving form once more. All that remained of the fauld and breastplate was still warm from the blast, and he could only guess what was waiting for him beneath the extensive damage to such hard metal. He heard a sound of protest behind him, his rescuer seeing only the Judge's armor, and thought to go for the helm. It slipped off too easily… the face beneath it was too pale… He heard a stifled gasp behind him, knew that the young man finally understood.

"_Damn_…"

He found he did not like the pitying quality in that tone; not for the implied meaning behind it. He placed a hand on Squall's cheek, tried to convince himself that the boy had never really been warm before, that being a little cold was not as bad as he thought. He had to believe there was still time on their side.

"We can still save him," he insisted, turning back to the other. "Tell me you still have something left. I don't care if we have to use an elixir, _just_-!"

"Fenrir…"

He did not need to hear the words to know – there was nothing; not at the moment. They had been expecting to rescue only him, would have stocked up for only his sake with what little time they could spare. Never had he felt more frustrated, and he reached down to gather Squall in his arms; he just noticed how the combined weight of boy and armor seemed just about the same as his sword's. Something rolled to the deck, and he blindly reached under his burden to catch it. A perfect sphere trapped in the cradle of fingers…

"… I'm not leaving him here."

He was thankful that his crewman was not arguing with him, instead obliging him and leading the way, moving around the gaping hole in the floor and pointing out where the stairs to the top deck aisle were. Adjusting his grip, Fenrir rose to his feet and followed. The empty lion's head he left behind, just as he left behind his sword and Squall's.

There was a sudden lurch from the doomed ship, and the helm rolled off the deck. It hit the platform below, bounced off and disappeared into the clouds.

* * *

Back on board the very ship he had jumped out of not so long ago, Cloud stripped Squall's body of armor for the second time. Pieces came undone one by one, each set down in a small pile on the floor; a far neater sight than what had only transpired the night before. No matter how careful he was trying to be, the fauld shattered to bits the moment he pried it free, littering the floor with its broken fragments. The breastplate was barely any better, snapping perfectly down the center along a deep crack.

When he was done, he laid Squall to rest on his bunk. There was no red stickiness on the thin shirt that he opened, but mapped over the torso was ugly bruising that started at his center as a dark mass and spread out like a spider, each misshapen leg wrapping over skin in a ghostly embrace. He could not feel any movement, not even the faintest wobble to indicate that there was at least shallow breathing. The face he saw was too calm for the amount of pain ravaged internal organs had to be causing.

He could hear the cabin door pop open just off to his right, then the footsteps approaching.

"Here…"

He looked over his shoulder to find a fresh vial held out to him. He took it, emptying the contents over the exposed skin and its cruel injuries and watching the dark color slowly fade. Even with the body restored, there seemed no other sign of improvement. His hand reached out, stroking through dark hair. Beside him, the third member of his crew watched quietly.

"To think the Empire would lash out like this at their own…" the man paused, his gaze resting on the blond once more. "Fenrir-"

"Don't say it," Cloud cut him off tersely. "Don't you dare."

"But-"

"I don't want to hear it," he answered slowly, "not when we- no, not when I allowed this to happen. I failed in our promise to protect the young."

"… He was a Judge, wasn't he?" his crewmate pointed out. "He would have known what was going to happen to him."

"Yes, he did. He was going home." And when he was not interrupted, Cloud continued softly, his hand never leaving its task. "He was going to finish his business with me, and return to Archades. He was going to spend his days with the only one he could call his friend. He was going to live."

His hand moved, tracing down the line of the scar on the boy's face.

"Did you know that I gave him this?" he went on, finding his voice surprisingly calm despite the bubble of emotions he could not suppress fully. "That was my first mistake, to mark him this way. He told me to forget it happened, and damn me, I did just that. I forgot he was just a kid under all that armor. He wanted to be an adult so much, and I treated him as I would an adult in the same scenario… But an adult would have taken what he could get and just left me to die."

The crewman had not stopped watching him, and as he saw Cloud rest his hand on the boy's cheek, he noted quietly, "He is more than just a kid to you, isn't he? Something happened."

"Yeah." And the hand moved to rest on Squall's chest, over his too quiet heart. "He found a place for me in here."

Despite the laws that had bound the mature, adult mind, the child had found it in him to love, to impulsively follow that love despite the dilemmas it forced upon him. And acting upon that love, the child had disregarded everything he learned to save the one feared losing. And now he had paid for it.

He had put that child up to this. He had played his game, made the rules, and still it went out of his control. Had he won, or had he lost? One or the other, they felt the same: bitter, painful, so very empty… silent…

Silent as the chest beneath his hand. Cloud felt none of life's beat under his touch, no matter how hard he wanted to believe otherwise. The fingers curled into a fist, a sickness filled him from the inside.

"… when we reach the base," he spoke in a command, "Let the boss know to reassign the both of you."

The crewman did not startle too visibly, but his eyes narrowed all the same. "You're leaving?"

"As though a Sky Pirate could stay away from what he does," he remarked dryly, no humor in either tone or expression. "But I need time away, to think."

"You can't blame yourself for this, Fenrir," he spoke, part in protest and part in reprimand. "You told me yourself, before – 'you can't save everyone'."

"And yet if I don't figure out how I failed to save that one I missed," he answered, "then I will fail again to save another."

He could not let the other argue with him further. He drew his hand away, laid it back atop his knee to support himself. "That is all," he spoke with finality. "I'm dropping you off, and then I'm gone. The boss will just have to find another pirate to steal for him."

"_Cloud…_"

"Firion," he interrupted the protest gently, softening his expression, "my time with you and Tidus, I can never trade. You have become strong members of the Resistance, so keep doing me proud while I am gone."

The crewman was far from appeased, but he did not argue. With a soft, frustrated sigh, he turned to make his way back to the cockpit.

"… don't take too long," he did say before leaving. "Don't go so far into those thoughts that you forget how to come back."

The cabin door fell shut once more with another muted "pop" of the catch. Again he was left alone with the still form on his bunk, and his hand reached out to take a still hand in his. Still cold, perhaps colder; there was no longer a purpose in denying it.

_Don't do this to me,_ he wanted to say, though his throat had run dry. _I know I promised you I would live, but that did not mean you had to…_

He had thought himself over loss, hardened with experience enough to know that death was inevitable, to give freely – be it in a gamble or otherwise – without holding on too tightly. As a Sky Pirate, he understood loss as a necessity. As a member of the Resistance, he had accepted loss as commonplace.

_You had a future. You were supposed to succeed my dreams of freedom, not the other way around._

_I wasn't worth it._

Squeezing the limp hand tightly, warming the cold flesh with his heated fingers, he pressed knuckles against his forehead as he struggled to breathe. It hurt. It had not hurt like this since so very long ago, before he became Fenrir.

The pain of another's sacrifice was strong as ever.

_I'm sorry, Squall,_ he tried to speak, but none of the words had volume or sound.

The air remained cold and silent.

* * *

In Archades, young Larsa Solidor was surprised to find a small package delivered to him from the Skycity of Bhujerba, without any prior notice or explanation from the Marquis of Ondore. It was more a pouch without straps than a parcel, and when he popped it open, a small ball rolled out heavily upon his desk. Picking it up, he took interest in the white feather curled at its center, the sunlight catching off its surface changing colors with every turn of the crystal sphere.

Setting it down, he shook the pouch again. This time, something much smaller clattered to his desk. He inspected it as well, between his thumb and forefinger, and found it to be a Tourmaline Ring, a little worn from previous use and showing signs of reshaping from a larger circumference. He was still examining them, thinking about the significance behind such trinkets, when he was informed of messengers.

The men who appeared before him came with news about the _Ragnarok_.


	5. Epilogue

It had been a good year. It mattered not that more people seemed bent on seeking them out and confronting them; it was good sport, a refreshing workout and bit of excitement over the usual, mundane routine of slaying monsters while embarking on this seemingly endless hunt they shared between them.

And such was it that the hunt led them through the Giza Plains. It rained now, as it was prone to doing with such regularity. The nomads had left for the mountains once again, and in their place emerged the stronger monsters, though the taste and texture of their meat and blood was not much worth the effort of slaying them. Still, he welcomed the exercise, and as he crossed the rain-sodden grounds of the plains, he found the one he knew would be there.

Not a nomad – even the nomads found this one peculiar – but a stranger. A loner. He never sheltered from the rains, always sitting on this one large rock and soaking himself with little care. Perhaps it was his intention to soak, for he never seemed as relaxed and at peace when the weather was dry. He had seen this stranger fight, but only when he had to and only for the sake of survival; his purpose did not lie in hunting.

That is, if he had a purpose at all for sitting out in the rain and indulging in its cold, wet company.

He approached the stranger once more, sniffing to pick up a peculiar scent of dried spices that was starting to wash out. Once he was close enough, he kicked his feet off the ground, hopping onto the lowest perch he could find on the slick rock surface. Each foot careful, he made his way upward, until he was side by side with the stranger. The stranger had never taken the initiative to greet him before, and so without prompting he stuck his head just beneath the man's elbow and bumped the underside of his forearm.

In response, the hand moved slowly, reaching up to his head and scratching at his ears. Without looking at him, the man spoke his usual greeting.

"Hello, Enkidu."

His objective achieved, he continued to sit by this stranger's side, enjoying the minimal but at least voluntary petting that the man was doing in a haze of distraction before it stopped. He had never seen the man alert or fully aware before, not even when he killed the beasts that dared attack him. Instead, it was as though he always had something to focus his attention on – something that had no form to see, no voice to hear, no scent to smell, no flesh to touch.

Whatever this strange thing was, only the stranger alone seemed plagued by it. The stranger seemed troubled by it. And though he did not know what it was that haunted this man, he had an idea what it might be.

It takes a changed wolf to know another.

Sometimes, sitting next to the stranger so lost in his thoughts, he wondered how long it had been since this one lost his partner. He wondered if one day, that would be him sitting alone on a rock and mourning the stubborn old ass who had somehow become his rival, his partner… and his friend.

Then he heard the high pitched whine that slipped through the patter of rain in a whisper of wind. That crazy old fool was calling to him, summoning him back. He stood up on the rock, hopped back to the soggy ground below his feet. The stranger made no move to stop him, neither did the stranger watch as he shook himself down and jogged away.

No sense dwelling too much on those thoughts. So long as that day was not upon him yet.

* * *

_The desire to learn is the desire to understand. The desire to understand is the desire to communicate. The desire to communicate is the desire to interact, to be with another. No one was created with the base purpose of being alone. All may not actively seek companionship, but eventually, companionship finds its way to those who interact and communicate with one another._

_The wolf has learned. The wolf understands what the man tells him, and he thinks about what the man wants. He understands what the man is trying to say. He understands what makes the man, what makes him strong and, more importantly, what makes him weak._

_The wolf loves this man because he is vulnerable. He loves the man because someone has to love him._

_And when the man accepts the love and gives love back, the man gives with it all of his trust to the wolf._

_Out of love, he lets the wolf go._

_Out of love, the wolf stays._


End file.
